Barbershop
When my sister’s hair began to fall out,
she was told to go to a barber
as he would be more skilled
than the average stylist
in applying the razor
to her tender scalp, which has always
been covered by hair, even if
just a fine baby down,
but would now be laid bare.
She sits in the chair, surrounded by men,
and explains to the barber three times
that yes, she wants him
to shave it all off.
His English isn’t good.
A man who’s brought his son in
for his first cut translates. “Yes, todos–all.”
My sister points to a photo of a muscled
bald man on the wall.
And so it begins, hair falling
to the floor like soft grass cuttings
to be swept up and thrown away.
A pause after each row
so she can reach for a tissue.
The men in the shop fall silent
and avert their eyes, thinking, maybe,
of their sisters or their wives
as the electric razor whines.
(first published in Poet Lore Fall/Winter 2016; www.poetlore.com )
The Craftsmen
All the shoe repairers and tailors and watch-battery replacers
are little old men with shiny heads bald
except for the rim of white hair circling
the border of where hair used to be,
and ears and noses where hair still sprouts,
weeds growing out of cracks in the sidewalk.
They stand behind their laminate counters with tired shoulders
and peer with mournful eyes at the offering you’ve brought,
turning it in their hands, shaking their heads,
clucking in the back of their throats.
And just as you are teetering off the precipice into
hopelessness, they nod and say, “Come back Thursday”
and quote a price so low
you feel you should talk them higher.
What will happen when all these little old men,
with their secret knowledge brought with them
from another land and learned in another tongue,
go the way of their fathers?
Who will take over their musty strip mall shops,
the same faded shoes and blouses displayed
since the eighties? Who will fill out the little tags
in shaky pencil and know just how to tighten that shoe
strap or hem your pants or maneuver those tiny
tools into the crevice of your watch to pop it open?
Just think of all the broken heels, pants dragging
in the dirt, the watches gone silent and still.
(first published in The Naugatuck River Review Summer/Fall 2016 https://naugatuckriverreview.com/)
flawed but functioning 
Katherine, these are just great. Emotional without veering off into sentimentality. Thanks for sharing them.
Appreciate that, Bob. You and Bob Cording were a huge help in steering me in the right direction. I’m thankful for the Bobs in my life!
That’s very kind of you to say that, although Bob C. deserves any and all credit. Perhaps you were aware that he has retired from Holy Cross and is now one of the mentors for the SPU MFA program. He was at the most recent—and my last—residency that ran concurrent with the 2016 Glen. I was so terribly pleased that he was at my graduate reading. I was able to send him by creative thesis which he spoke kindly of. Also, for my critical thesis, I wrote it on his use of voice in his most recent book, Only So Far. If you can make it to this year’s Glen, he’ll be there.
I didn’t know that, so thanks for sharing. Sadly, it’s highly unlikely I’ll be able to attend the Glen given my new (as of last summer) school calendar and our earlier start date, but I’m glad he’s still involved. I would love to see some of your more recent work if you are ever willing to share!
Been scrolling through your blog. Found from a post on rattle. I like this particular poem a lot, and I’m not sure why. Maybe I was I intrigued by the fact that in my experience in small Craftsman shops like these, I have never seen a 24 year old like me behind the counter. That seemed startling for some reason.
When my watch breaks I usually buy a new one, because I have a phone instead of a watch, and by the time it breaks, there’s a new model out…incentivised to replace my old one.
This poem makes me sad.
Thanks for sharing your experience, Gregory. In part, this poem is a lament for all the little ways the world is changing that we don’t even notice. It makes me sad, too. I find some hope in writing poems and reading other people’s poems, though–each being its own small act of preservation or witness.